


Flavour

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Food, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Mycroft Holmes, the art of cooking is something very sensual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flavour

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta [kholly](http://kholly.livejournal.com). :)

Mycroft absolutely loved eating.

His love for good food had started with the delicious meals served at home, which had resulted in baby fat he hadn't lost until he had started attending university. Later, his fondness had only increased with the various restaurants and bistros he went to, for professional or private purposes. And of course, like any true paramour of good food, Mycroft was also fond of cooking.

There were three approaches to the art of making a meal, in Mycroft's opinion.

First of all, there were those people that cooked food because they were hungry and simply needed something to fill their stomachs with, the kind of day-to-day cooking that happened in families as much as in single households. They cooked what would fill them up quickly and efficiently. A bowl of pasta or a handful of rice gave you energy and a nice, warm feeling in your belly.

You could also choose the sober, more scientific approach Mycroft knew Sherlock would take to, should he ever bother to use his kitchen for something other than experimenting. For people like Sherlock, cooking consisted of following a recipe, measuring ingredients, boiling it all to a certain degree and finally, placing it on a dish so it could be ingested.

Then, there was the kind of cooking Mycroft had learned to love: sensual cooking. This kind of cooking was an activity that would make you smell, taste, hear, feel and see, the kind that tickled all of your body's senses into awareness. Mycroft, usually so very calm and reserved in any situation he might encounter, could completely immerse and lose himself when it came to preparing and eating a meal.

It was one of the things that had pleasantly surprised John at the beginning of their relationship, Mycroft knew. He could vividly remember the look of astonishment on John's face when he had come to Mycroft's house, only to be greeted with the sight of Mycroft in a dark red apron, head bowed over one of the many sizzling and boiling pans and pots to check if the potatoes were done yet.

 _Though it might have been the apron and not the cooking in particular_ , Mycroft mused, stirring his _quattro formaggi_ , a sauce that consisted of four different types of cheeses and was one of John's favourites.

This afternoon, Mycroft had received a hasty call from John, who had told him that he would have to stitch up Sherlock after chasing a rather stubborn criminal and would probably be late for their Friday night ritual. Preparing some comfort food for his partner seemed only natural to Mycroft.

Mycroft had quickly gotten used to John being late due to Sherlock's antics. Sometimes, he couldn't understand how John could stand it all but then, it was one of the many reasons why he had fallen in love with the man in the first place. Hardly anybody liked Sherlock and practically no one had ever cherished his company like John did. John loved Sherlock like a brother and in return, Sherlock was fond of John to a degree that he had never displayed with any other person, other than perhaps Mummy.

Sometimes, Mycroft was actually surprised Sherlock had stopped manipulating John into hating Mycroft as soon as he had realised that Mycroft's feelings were genuine and that John was actually starting to reciprocate them. It was probably more of a proof of Sherlock's affections for John than for his own brother, but Mycroft didn't mind too much. Sherlock and he had simply never been as close as he would have preferred.

A mischievous smile on his face, Mycroft couldn't resist the fantastic smell evaporating from the pot any longer and dipped his right forefinger into the sauce, careful not to burn himself as he tasted his creation.

"More pepper," he murmured and let go of the stirring spoon in favour of grabbing the wooden mill near-by.

Soon, the smell of freshly ground pepper infiltrated Mycroft's nostrils and he turned quickly as he anticipated the need of having to sneeze into his sleeve.

"Bless you."

A smile on his lips, Mycroft turned. He had known, of course, that John would be here just about now - the advantages of controlling the CCTV of Greater London - but wasn't any less happy his partner had come.

As always, John looked absolutely lovable in a chequered shirt and a dark, soft cardigan. If Mycroft didn't know what John was capable of, he might have been fooled by his harmless appearance as well. Taking in the slightly crumpled collar and the tiny fluff of shaving foam close to John's ear, Mycroft deduced that his partner had been in quite a hurry to leave Baker Street after all the excitement with Sherlock.

"Thank you," Mycroft replied and ceased his further stirring for a moment to accept a passionate kiss from John, parting his lips invitingly.

He could taste a hint of peppermint and frowned a bit as they parted. John didn't miss it, of course, and interrupted before Mycroft had even opened his mouth to file a complaint.

"I _know_ ," he immediately said, smile apologetic. "No brushing my teeth with toothpaste before dinner, it ruins the taste. I _do_ listen to you, you know?"

"Listen, yes. Oblige, no, apparently?"

One of John's hands had found its way onto Mycroft's behind, cupping it and giving it a light squeeze. _Tease._

"Bit the inside of my cheek earlier when I tripped," he explained and yes, of course, Mycroft could see that now from the way John's tongue occasionally moved and created a small bump where it pressed against the abused flesh, and from the fresh but light scratches on his palms where John had cushioned his fall. "I needed to get rid of the blood."

Mycroft sighed and motioned over to where a basket of white bread was waiting on the kitchen table.

"Have some bread, then," he told him. "It should help to neutralise some of the peppermint, at least."

John smiled, leaning in for another kiss, this one soft and apologetic, before he moved his eyes to look just what Mycroft was cooking tonight. Mycroft was pleased to see the excited widening of John's eyes and the unconscious licking of lips when he saw what was on the menu.

" _Exactly_ what I need tonight," John exclaimed, kissed Mycroft's cheek and squeezed his backside once more before moving to the kitchen table to get a piece of bread.

"I thought you'd appreciate something warm and greasy after today's adventure," Mycroft explained himself, checking on the _farfalle_ to make sure they didn't over-cook. Both John and he preferred their pasta _al dente_.

"Let's _not_ talk about Sherlock and his madness tonight", John groaned, bread halfway to his mouth. "Please?"

Mycroft could only agree to that.

They provided each other with silent but pleasant company for a few minutes as Mycroft focused on his cooking, slowly boiling the sauce to perfection and testing the pasta in regular intervals.

"You know that you look utterly _sexy_ when you cook?" John rumbled eventually.

Mycroft had the decency to blush a bit at the lusty undertones. He sent John a quick look, taking in the way John's eyes were all but roaming over Mycroft's body with a whole different kind of hunger. Mycroft swallowed.

"Yes, well," he replied, absent-mindely brushing his free hand over his apron.

John made a slightly alarming growling noise that sent a by now very familiar shiver down Mycroft's spine.

"You and your little _apron_ ," John continued, getting up from where he had picked up another piece of bread. "Quite the sight, Britain's most influential man dressed like a proper little housewife."

Mycroft shook his head but couldn't stop the smile forming on his lips.

"That's a bit misogynistic, wouldn't you say?" he told him with no heat as John stepped closer to him once more.

Mycroft watched as John lifted the bread and swiftly dipped it into the sauce. Mycroft's noise of protest was muffled by said piece of bread entering his mouth. He bit down in reflex, the taste of bread and cheeses melting together, and John smiled, clearly enjoying watching Mycroft's lips close around the treat.

"God, you're _gorgeous_ ," he breathed, brushing a thumb over Mycroft's right cheek. "Gorgeous when you're cooking, gorgeous when you're eating - _gorgeous_."

It didn't take a genius to understand what John had in mind right then.

"Let me strain the pasta," he objected when John's hands sneaked onto Mycroft's hips. "I don't want it to become soggy."

John let him. However, John also realised that nibbling at Mycroft's neck didn't really interfere with taking care of the _farfalle_. Mycroft suppressed a little moan when John started sucking lightly at the delicate skin on the side of his neck, and tried to focus on the task at hand.

"You're a right pest," he told John fondly, hands warming as steam rose from the strained pasta.

One of John's hands made its way under the fabric of both the red apron and Mycroft's shirt and was now brushing over Mycroft's stomach, causing little sparks and shivers of excitement on Mycroft's skin.

"I want to taste you," John murmured, hand gliding lower and over the bump in Mycroft's trousers that was growing at an embarrassingly quick rate.

"How about tasting my cooking first?" Mycroft argued half-heartedly.

"Can wait," John rumbled and popped the trouser button open.

Mycroft had the presence of mind to turn off the cooker before he was turned around and pushed against the fridge near-by. John's lips pressed against Mycroft's own once more and no longer caring, he let out a pleased moan and kissed him back heatedly.

"Sauce's good," John told him in between kisses, no doubt having picked up on the lingering taste in Mycroft's mouth. "How is _this_?"

John had cupped Mycroft's clothed arousal once more and squeezed, and the images floating up in Mycroft's mind only made him moan louder.

"V-very good," Mycroft told him breathlessly, panting lightly against John's lips.

"Let me have a taste, then."

And with that, John was on his knees on the kitchen tiles, thumbs hooked into Mycroft's trousers and underwear, pulling them down to Mycroft's knees in one, quick motion. Mycroft's apron kept him decent for the tiniest moment until John grabbed the hem of it and pushed it up.

"Hold on to that, would you?" he said, desire evident in his voice.

Mycroft quickly grabbed the hem of the apron, his other arm seeking for support until it found the edge of the kitchen counter. His fingers curled around the smooth wood almost instantly.

Then, John's lips were around his erection, warm and moist, and Mycroft stopped thinking.

To Mycroft, cooking was sensual. But sex, well, sex was simply _overwhelming_.

It _felt_ so good, the moist pressure of John's mouth against his sensitive skin. Mycroft could _smell_ their arousal and the forming of sweat, could _hear_ the satisfied little noises both John and he were making, could _see_ , through slightly hazy eyes, how John's lips were wrapped wonderfully around Mycroft's hard cock. And John, John was _tasting_ Mycroft and moaning as if Mycroft were the most delicious dish of them all.

When John started sucking, Mycroft knew it'd be over soon.

"John," he warned, voice hardly above a whisper and John chuckled, lips vibrating around Mycroft's erection.

Realising that John was planning to _swallow_ was what brought Mycroft over the edge. With a moan and shaking legs, he came and John's mouth never left Mycroft's softening cock until every last drop of semen had been ingested.

" _John_ ," he sighed, letting go of the hem of the apron to lightly pull at John's hair, beckoning him to stand up.

When John stood, face flushed and wearing a broad and satisfied grin, Mycroft pulled him close, kissing him until he could taste himself on John's lips and tongue, salty and a tiny bit gritty.

"Hmm," John hummed with a mischievous smile, once their lips had parted.

Mycroft lightly shook his head, smiling as he moved his hand to rest over John's fly, ready to give pleasure in return.

"Let me," he told him but John shook his head, even though Mycroft could tell that the man was aroused. Very aroused, in fact.

"I still want food," John explained himself, jerking his head towards the cooker where steam was still rising from the cheese sauce. " _Warm_ food, preferably."

Mycroft nodded, awkwardly bowing down to re-dress himself like the decent person he usually was. The things John did to him, honestly. In the _kitchen_ of all places.

"It should still be warm," Mycroft said once he had closed his trousers and brushed the wrinkles out of his slightly crinkled apron.

"But," John replied, "maybe - after dinner?"

He winked suggestively, the silly man, very much like a horny teenager might have, and Mycroft chuckled as he approached the cupboard where the plates were stored to finally serve what had he had _intended_ to be the main course for tonight.

"Insatiable," he muttered and John laughed.


End file.
